


Vulpes Inculta, Fox of the Mojave

by Adira_Tyree



Series: The Irradiated Couch [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Character Study, Crack, Gen, Hilarity, Procrastination at its finest, cracky crack crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adira_Tyree/pseuds/Adira_Tyree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first in a series in which I throw my characters on the couch and just talk with them. This is pretty much how I get to know a character I write, whether it's for fic, a short story, or a novel. I thought it might be fun to post this crazy crack! Call it a character study. In which I do at least half of the talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nulla deis sine linea.

“You know, I’m starting to think I’ve gone crazy. There’s literally nothing that can get you off my mind. What even is this?”

Vulpes shrugs, still standing with his hands behind his back. Part of me wonders briefly if there’s a knife clutched between them. “It is what it is.” His voice is that same, tone that addles my brain day-in and day-out; dark and heavy, yet light and perfectly sane. He knows what he does, just as well as I do. He just doesn’t seem to care.

“I should have known better than to talk to you about it. You’re buckets o’crazy to begin with. I mean it gives you a better judging point I suppose, but—”

“Perhaps you should be working on something else for now? You have other characters that are far more… persistent… than I.”

“They are, but I have to keep them out of the picture for now; if I allow myself to work on my novel I’ll never get through this semester.”

“So you are using me?” He smirks in that way that shows he knows he’s won.

It’s true, and I hate it. But I need to do this. “Yes.”

“Then worry not about it. Worry about your Latin for now; the stories write themselves, the Latin does not.”

I can’t help but sigh and roll my eyes. “You would bring up the Latin.”

“Nulla deis sine linea.” He full on smiles at me, boiling my blood.

“Do you realize I had to double check that to be sure the Latin was right? You speaking in Latin through me is a TOTALLY unfair way to make me practice.” How did I even let him turn into a character? I knew better than to let this happen. I suppose I didn’t expect the Latin though.

“You are happy, perhaps even thrilled, to read it in other writers’ works,” he points out, raising an eyebrow and and turning his head slightly. The smirk is replaced with a questioning gaze.

“True, but that’s because I can just read it usually. I don’t have to think out how to grammar it. If someone else has done the grammar I can get it for the most part. I just need the vocabulary and a refresher on tenses and such.” I can’t even believe I’m doing this.

“Principal parts of—“

“No. You’re not quizzing me. I am just not letting this happen.” Seriously, what does he take me for? He’s my freaking character, not my magister.

“There is no point in knowing a language if you are not going to use it; the same is true of any skill. How is your translation of Tacitus coming along?”

“Can we not discuss my homework in my fanfic? I’m seriously trying to write something. This is not even slightly what I planned on writing tonight. I was going to do a wonderful little one-shot about you because I can’t wait to get to you in my actual fic. But _nooooooo_ , you had to hijack it and turn it into some weird thing where the author talks to the character and looks every bit as much a psychopath as you.” My hands are starting to ache from how much I’m cracking my knuckles. Maybe I should just go warm up some pizza and abandon this concept altogether for the night.

“As I said, there is no point in having a skill if you choose not to use it.” He smirks again, his eyes narrowing gleefully.

“So, because you can, you’re going to be a twat and make it impossible for me to write tonight?” I can’t even believe this, and I’m writing it.

“Yes.”

“This is why I hate my characters.”

“Don’t lie, it’s unbecoming of you. You enjoy the ability to allow a character to write himself. It allows you more time to focus on the plot and the details of the story, while the direction and dialogue is focused on by the mouths that speak through you.” His stance is a little more relaxed than it was. Perhaps he enjoys antagonizing me.

“Fine. I like my characters. I even like you. You’re interesting and pretty.”

“Prof—“

“Don’t even profligate at me. I don’t have to write you.”

“But you do anyway. You’ve written full scenes that are perhaps more than 20 chapters away, just for the sake of putting my life to paper or terminal.”

“To anyone that’s listening, I think I am being held hostage in my own mind by Vulpes Inculta, Fox of the Mojave. If you get this message, I am probably dead. Please be sure someone feeds the cat.” I think I’ve lost it. Maybe I should just go into the kitchen for a while and find something to eat. If I take my hands away from the keyboard, he can’t type anymore. 


	2. Because Fancy Lads' are obviously healthy.

“Your eating habits could really be better.”

“Are you serious? You eat things that are processed crap from two hundred years ago!”

“I am fictional. You are not.”

“This is quite possibly the weirdest writing problem I’ve ever had.” Seriously. I actually kind of apologize that I plan to post this. Besides, what’s wrong with tomato soup and fried cheese?

The way he’s still just standing there is somewhat unnerving. He never moves or sits down, just stands there and watches until he’s given an order and goes off somewhere to do Caesar’s bidding. I’m not even sure he sleeps. Maybe he has a crazy twin and they pretend to be the same person, working meticulously in shifts so that I neve notice—

“You’re making me sound crazy,” I say, cutting my thoughts off.

“I have done nothing to sway your influence one way or another.” His tone is completely neutral.

“You’re a frumentarius. Go do something frumentari-ish.” Seriously, go do anything at this point, I just want to write.

“Frumentarius does not have an adjectival form as ‘ish’ would imply. The word comes from the adjective meaning ‘grain,’ also frumentarius, but the position itself, as a noun, has no adjective.” His voice is smug as he corrects me. “If you wish to say for me to do something a Frumentarius would do, you would need to use the genitive. Preferably, the genitive plural.”

“Frumentar… iorum?”

“Correct. Frumentariorum.” He gives a swift nod.

My character is giving me a Latin lesson. I tried to avoid this, you know. I really did. I told myself _oh, don’t worry, being a linguist won’t matter. You’ll keep your love of language out of your fanfiction, at the very least, I’m sure!_ But no. I can’t even do that much. First it was the Dead Horses languages, now it’s Latin. At least I don’t have to make up the Latin language as I go.

“Well fine,” I say, trying not to sound as though I’m giving in. “Go do something _frumentariorum_.”

“I’m sure you can do better than that.”

I swear to the gods above, I’m seriously considering killing him off at some point after all this. “Effice aliquorum frumentariorum?”

“Perhaps you should stick to the fanfiction for now.”

“I’m really, really not sure whether or not I should thank you for allowing me that. It’s not my fault I’ve never had a class on how to create my own Latin sentences; what do you want from me?” Seriously. I started Latin years ago and no one has considered teaching me how to form a basic sentence myself yet. Translating is just not my main interest, come on people.

“I believe the term is ‘being tactful.’”

“Are you sure? I thought it was more something like, ‘go fuck yourself, Fox.’ I could be wrong.”


	3. The couch is pretty soft if you're willing to lay down.

“You’ve returned.” It’s a simple statement of fact.

“You’re more interesting than Reddit, I’m too tired to post on LJ again, and there’s nothing new on Ao3. There’s nothing old on Ao3 either. I’ve read my way through everything that even remotely looked interesting.”

“Perhaps an additional hobby would be helpful in such cases. You might also consider sleep. It is late; I’ll keep watch.” His words are still very matter-of-fact as he speaks, still standing with his hands behind his back.

“Now look Vulpes, babe, darling: I know I live in a city, but you don’t need to keep watch just because of that.” I’m not entirely sure what to say to him, to be honest.

“Would you prefer I did not?”

“Well, no, I mean I don’t mind, but—”

“Good. I will be keeping watch regardless.”

Well. It’s almost sweet in a weird sort of way. “Will my radio bother you?” Not that I really give a damn. It’s more that I’m curious.

“No.”

“Oh good. I was going to keep it on anyway.”

Vulpes smirks that smirk of his, his little vulpine grin that so well suits his features. What is it about the crazy ones anyway that’s so fun to write? Am I just insane? I’m sure you’ll think so by now, if you’ve read this far.

He’s a fascinating character. He’s loyal to a fault, performs his assigned tasks flawlessly with seemingly little to no effort, and shows impressive skill with most anything handed to him. We all seem to be sure he would be an excellent dancer, as well as a great shot, a wonderful cook, and a voracious reader. These are all fantastic qualities!

Yet at the same time, everyone hates him for being the bad guy. He seems to have shot both the angel and the devil on his shoulders, in favor of having no conscience at all. He does what he is told and wants what he wants. When given an order he is allowed to execute it in whatever way he sees fit. This gives him an extreme amount of power in the otherwise rigorous structure of the Legion.

Still, when I look at him I am forced to see the most human of his qualities. His vanity, his greed, his want of power and desire for control. This seems to be what leads most of us to consider him a bad-guy.

“You’re not sleeping,” he interjects into my thoughts.

“Who could sleep with you standing over them? Seriously, you look like a murderer. You _are_ a murderer.” An excuse. I know I’m just putting off sleep because I’d rather be doing other things. I’ll regret it later tomorrow, when I have time.

“This is not news to you and has not yet stopped you before. Go to sleep.” The volume of his voice has not raised, but the command is obvious.

Too bad I’m a bad listener.


	4. Keeping watch by day and night.

“You do realize it is nearly sunrise, do you not?” He gives a nod to the East, where the horizon glows with a soft red-orange.

“Yes, I do. Thank you for the information, Vulpes.” A lie. I had no idea it had gotten so late while I was busy writing away at this.

“You did tell me to go do something frumentariorum, if you recall. Information is what we specialize in.” He looks like he would laugh if he didn’t want to deny me that level of friendship.

Am I even friends with him? Does one become friends with a character over time? Does that sound odd? Perhaps there has been too much crack this evening for me to be able to tell exactly what I even mean to be doing.

“You should sleep,” he adds again, staring off into nothingness. “You’ll never get through the day on less than six hours of sleep.”

“I don’t need to defend my choices. They’re mine to make. I thought I was studying your character, not the other way around.” Jeez.

Vulpes shakes his head, grinning. “You are the one that seems to talk about yourself. Has not nearly all of this been about you?”

Oh. How. How did he even do that. This is not what I planned at all.

“So, Vulpes. Tell me about yourself.”

At this, he does laugh. Apparently I don’t have Caesar’s sway over him. I suppose this shouldn’t be surprising, given the way that I write is more of a ‘hey write yourself, I’m busy with life right now.’ He just needs a firm hand is all.

His voice is calm and cool as always as he speaks again, despite his laughter. “What is there to know?”

“You should know, Mister Frumentarius. That’s your expertise, the business of knowing things.”

“But what do you not yet know about me that I would tell you?” I have to try hard not to sigh when his words appear on the page.

There are moments with writing where I seriously begin to doubt myself. This is that type of moment. Where I wonder if I will ever break in to the true core of a character, or if I will be stuck outside of him/her/it, unable to really understand their motivations and ways beyond the surface value.

If I watch him he goes back to staring out into the nothingness. He can tolerate my stare just fine it seems, he just has no interest in holding it with his own gaze. There are better things for him to be doing, things he could be seeing instead.

What I find most impossible for him to do, quite honestly, is sleep. I, now noticing it is nearly 5:00am again, crave sleep. I will give in to it quite soon, since with less sleep I am far less functional. He, on the other hand, will continue to stay awake and watch the world as it goes by. Perhaps he will even attempt to blend in a bit, just for the sake of getting a closer look.

If he stops watching, he might miss something.

I wonder what it is he’s looking for.


	5. Patience, a hard practiced skill.

“What would you say about Lanius?” I ask, wondering whether or not it’s a good idea. I have a fair idea of how he feels about Lanius, but I want to be sure.

His features stiffen just slightly before the mask of indifference returns to its usual place. “He is a man of great strength and unstoppable in battle. Caesar was able to conquer many tribes by allying himself with the Legate.”

“You don’t sound thrilled by his existence.”

He takes his time formulating an answer, carefully choosing every word. The silence is strained, but not uncomfortable. Despite the tension he brings, he still controls the feel of the very air in the room.

“Caesar’s decision to spare him at the fall of the Hidebark tribe. He has proven himself to be a great asset to the Legion.”

“But you don’t like him,” I prod. He scowls just slightly.

“Whether or not I enjoy his company is of no importance,” he says. He stands straighter, cracking one side of his neck. He must be exhausted; I don’t know that he’s moved in days.

“It is to me; I’m the one that has to write the both of you.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, just slightly tilting his head towards me again.

“You know what’s coming,” I point out to him. And it’s true, he does. Sorry reader. Spoilers for _Fallout: Returning Home_ are removed from this conversation.

“I do. But I don’t see why it matters.” He turns and looks away, scanning the area for signs of life. Nothing. With no signs of emotion he returns his gaze to me. “The Legate is a powerful man and I will not deny his physical prowess. Still, if we are speaking frankly, I will go so far as to say he cares not for the Legion, but only for his own bloody body count. Still, as he racks up a death toll, his bloodlust only worsens. There would be no end to it.”

This time I am surprised by his answer, though only just. I know he doesn’t want to kill for the sake of killing, and that his work is dedicated to the creation of a more “civilized” world in its own way. The fact that he wants to see the end of the bloodshed though is news to me.

“You want the war to end?” I ask, uncertain.

“What man wants to live his life with nothing but war and chaos? Only a beast would crave such things.” His tone is blunt, but not angry.

I shake my head, laughing lightly. “There are times when you surprise me, Vulpes. And then, like now, there are times when I can’t decide if you’ve surprised me or not.” I stretch out my legs, leaning back across the couch on which he refuses still to sit.

“I am a frumentarius; if I were not able to surprise you still, I should step down from my position. The day I can hide no secrets from Caesar himself is the day I remove myself as their leader,” he says, glaring at me with such intensity that I have to stop myself from shrinking back into the cushions of the couch.

Part of me wants to apologize to him, but I know he’d find it weak. I change my tactic and say instead, “then you better not let that happen.” I leave no room for negotiation in my voice.

His response is only a nod, but I can see that he has already brushed away his anger. He tends to do that: shoves off his emotions quickly, preferring a neutrality of voice and response. Still, I know that he is not apathetic.

Often he responds quickly with an emotion, and then just as quickly removes it from the playing field. He knows that his emotions are what get him into trouble, that they are his weakness. The fact that I can so easily antagonize him into a provoked response shows his distracted state of mind. Something is bothering him.

Again he glances around, watching, waiting. Something is going to happen and he knows it, he just isn’t sure when. I can’t help but wonder what’s bothering him, but this I know he won’t tell me. Honestly, I’m surprised he opened up to me at all already about anything, let alone giving me an actual opinion on something (someone).

“Will you sit down?” I ask, not bothering to move.

“No,” he says, quietly. It’s not that he doesn’t want to or wouldn’t sit with me, it’s that he feels that, for now at least, he cannot. He is doing something more important. He’s waiting. And in that wait he won’t budge until he has seen the answer he’s waiting for.

Who knows whether or not it will be a good one. Who knows whether or not it will be worth the wait. Who knows how long it could be.

His gaze extends long and far, moving off to the horizon and just beyond. A breeze picks up, just slightly, and he lifts his chin to feel it and smell the air. He closes his eyes, looking down; it has told him nothing.


End file.
